


365 Days to Say Goodbye

by sammac7



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-10 20:23:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammac7/pseuds/sammac7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After struggling to cope with the loss of Sherlock, John seeks out help from his therapist for the first time in years. She gives him an ultimatum: he has exactly one year to grieve Sherlock in whichever ways he sees fit, after which, he has to continue on normally with his life. In that year, John soon discovers that some things are best left to only one—or possibly two—hearts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is post-Reichenbach, and because of this, deals with John struggling with depression and the process of grieving. This carries throughout the entire work, in varying degrees of intensity.

“Goodbye, John,” he said, the same way as he always had. He had always hung up the phone, thrown it onto the roof in the same manner. He even jumped in the same exact way every single time, with his arms and legs flailing, as if he had realized he had suddenly made a rather grave error. Except that it was too late for him to turn back, too late for him to be back up on that rooftop. He had jumped, he would fall, and John would wake, sweating and shaking, the name of his dead friend still on his lips. Just as he always had. 

John supposed that was the real terror in having to relive that scene every night as he slept. He knew exactly what was going to happen, exactly when it was going to happen. The real terror was in the realization that he could do nothing to stop Sherlock from jumping, and he could do even less to prevent the inevitable landing. Though he knew he could do nothing about it now, especially not a month after his fall, he continued to relive the moment his nightmares became a reality.  


On a good day, he was sick of the constant reminders. The papers were still talking about the “Suicide of the Fake Genuis,” and nothing John said could ever convince anybody anything otherwise. He knew better, though. You couldn’t fake intelligence of that magnitude. Even if he had faked it, it still would have taken the same level of intelligence, faking something as tremendous as that. If he was being completely honest, though, it made sense to him about how readily the media and the public had accepted the lies. After all, they enjoyed nothing more than building somebody up, only to rip him right back down.  


On a bad day, though, he was lucky if he even got out of bed. It wasn’t even the apartment of 221B that left him in bed, crippled with grief. No, he had been too empty to go back. The wound was still too fresh, too raw, to return there. What left him crippled with grief was the realization that he was gone. No matter how much he prayed, no matter how much he wished for a miracle, Sherlock was, in fact, dead. Nothing could take away the pain that one simple sentence caused. Nothing could ever bring Sherlock back, and that’s what hurt the most.  


He had enough bad days in the past month to question how he was ever going to carry on. He thought, at first, that he wouldn’t. But now, he had realized that he couldn’t carry on, at least like this. He couldn’t bear to watch Sherlock die again, not every night, not in the same way, with John standing helplessly on the street. And so, John limped his way to his therapist, whom he hadn’t visited since he had moved into 221B. He had said he was done with therapy, that he was honestly better. Yet, his psychosomatic limp had returned, and he was no longer healed. He was no longer the whole John Watson he had been a year ago. Instead, he was half of the man he used to be, as the other half of him was lying dead and gone in a cemetery.  


His therapist had greeted him warmly, not as if they hadn’t seen each other in years. He had assumed she expected him, eventually. Indeed, she had. The second the headlines hit, she had prepared for him, as she once had. She knew he’d come for assistance, however long he took. You don’t lose somebody that important to you without grief, and John had never grieved well.  


She voiced as much as they sat in her office, John gripping his cane tightly. Her eyes had filled with something more than sympathy, but it wasn’t obvious as to what. There was a part of her that thought him insane for believing Sherlock Holmes really had been the man he had made himself out to be. That very same part of her wondered how Doctor John Watson could grieve so deeply and completely for a man that was a fraud. Sherlock Holmes was a fraud, and she had to wonder about what sort of relationship he shared with John to cause him to react like this.  


“What’s with the sudden reappearance, John?” She questioned softly. She, in fact, knew exactly why he had suddenly reappeared, but it might help him if he said it aloud. She didn’t think he had said anything aloud about it since his funeral.  


“You know…” John began, but he stopped suddenly, seeming to struggle greatly with the words. “You know why, don’t you? You’ve seen the papers, haven’t you?” He blinked quickly, as if willing the tears away. He had promised himself after the funeral that he wouldn’t cry over Sherlock anymore. Unfortunately, that was a promise he had broken many times since. Habitually, he gripped his cane tighter, drawing it in closer to him.  


“I know it’s a hard loss for you,” She answered, her voice akin to that of a mother soothing her crying child. “But you have to allow yourself to grieve, and to grieve properly. Grieving improperly won’t land you anywhere except deep in depression, and we can’t allow that, John. It’s not healthy.”  


“How the hell do I grieve properly, then?” He asked, his voice slightly shakier, and yet twice as loud as before. “I can’t go back home, I can’t talk to Molly Hooper or Mrs. Hudson. It all just hurts too much.”  


“You have to give yourself time, Doctor Watson,” She replied in her motherly tone. “Time heals all wounds. Perhaps you could try blogging about it, because writing everything down often helps people cope with their grief and get their thoughts straight.”  


“No, I can’t do that,” John protested, his voice slightly firmer, as at last, he was sure of something. “I can’t blog about it—it’s much too personal for that.”  


“Could you write in a journal about it?” She asked, waiting. John nodded silently, not quite sure where this is going. “You know, nobody besides me would have to know.” She was met with silence, and continued to press further. “After all, journals are wonderful places for saying things that you never got a chance to actually say.”  


John hesitated for a minute before responding. “How would it work?”  


“You could have a year,” She suggested, her eyes meeting his. “You’d have a year to properly grieve Sherlock Holmes, in whatever ways you see fit. At the end of a year, you’d carry on with your life normally. Hopefully, you’d continue normally before then. But if you grieve longer than a year, it’s likely you’d become lost in the early stages of grieving, and it’d be nearly impossible to sort your life out after that.”  


He was silent yet again, contemplating her suggestion. He didn’t have to show anybody the journal, did he? He agreed that it was much better than putting these things on his blog—after all, the vast majority of the people who followed the blog religiously believed Sherlock to be a fraud, much as he suspected the majority of the world did. He sighed as he replied, “I’ll do it, then.”  


His therapist nodded, handing him a leather bound journal from her desk. It was no bigger than an average sized book, but the warmth of the leather felt welcoming in his hands. “John Watson,” She began softly, “I wish you the best of luck as you grieve.”


	2. Two

_Day One_

_I suppose this is a bit odd, isn’t it? Grown men don’t write in journals. Grown men have jobs that support their families. But I possess neither of the two, so this will have to do._

_My therapist says it’ll help me to order my thoughts, help me to cope with the loss. She had told me it was unhealthy to grieve in an improper way and that if I did grieve in such a way, I’d wind up going off of the deep end and not returning._

_I’m supposed to continue living life normally, get a job, go out. I suppose that I could return to the position of physician I held earlier, but as of now, I have no desire to do such a thing. I’m perfectly content staying in my rented flat, since I’m still unable to return to Baker Street._

_In fact, now that I think about it, maybe it’s not as odd as it seems. Right now, I am not functioning as a grown man. I am physically a grown man, yes. But mentally, I am a twenty-something man who has just lost his lifelong friend. Those few years with Sherlock felt like a lifetime, but a lifetime that wound up ending prematurely._

_They’re still talking about him—the newspapers. They all say the same thing, all sling the same words. And yet, I still don’t believe any of them. Some of his final words to me were confirming their lies—and yet, I still don’t believe them. Even if he did fabricate his intelligence, he’d still have to be a near genius to pull it off for years without getting caught. If there was one thing Sherlock is not, it’s fake._

_Looking back and reading all of this, not one single paragraph is connected directly with the others. It makes sense, though, as it’s just my thoughts, and my thoughts are currently doing a sort of wicked dance inside of my head right now. They may never stop dancing, but perhaps the dance will become more organized, less wicked. I can only hope for as much._

John Watson sighed. It was a deep and heavy sigh, one that carried many things with it. His therapist had never said how hard it’d be to get his thoughts from his mind into the journal. He had thought it would be a simple transferring of words, but it was so much more than that. As he wrote down every word, he became increasingly aware of them, as if he had not fully acknowledged them when they had tangled themselves inside of his head.

Now, though, he was fully aware of the deep ache in the pit of his stomach, an ache of loss and sorrow. He was fully aware of the now constant throbbing between his temples, though he didn’t exactly know from where it originated. It could’ve been something as routine as dehydration, or something more exact to his current situation.

Most importantly, though, he was terribly and completely aware of the fact that he was alone. He had never exactly been one to seek out the company of others, but now was different. He was so completely and utterly alone, physically, mentally, and emotionally.

Sherlock was no longer by his side, and John no longer had to prevent him from shooting the wall in his near-constant state of boredom. Even though John had never been one to seek out company, he enjoyed it when he had it, and at times, he dearly missed it. Certainly, now was one of those times when he longed for somebody to talk to. And although John had absolutely loathed the way people talked about the two of them, he had to admit he enjoyed hanging around the man.

Emotionally, nobody supported him completely, fully. Of course, there were days when Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and Molly were sadder than the others. But their bad days weren’t half as bad as a good day for John, and that’s what bothered him the most. They had known Sherlock for years more than he had, and yet, none of them were quite as upset over him

Until now, he hadn’t thought anything of it. But now that he was painfully aware of everything, he realized that something may be different. Perhaps it was simply the fact that they had saved the life of the other more than once. Perhaps it was simply the fact that Sherlock had truly allowed John to live again, and that’s why they were such good friends.

After all, Sherlock didn’t exactly take a liking to most people, and that made John unique in the fact that he broke down the walls that Sherlock within which he had hidden himself. It was no easy feat, for sure, so why should grieving the man be any different? It only made sense that the same amount of effort he put into opening up that man should be put into laying that man to rest.

Still, though, there were a few thoughts that lingered in the back of John’s brain, suggesting a bit more. He would be lying to himself if he hadn’t admitted that there were times when he wondered if Sherlock considered their relationship to be slightly more than platonic. There were even times when he wondered if their relationship was slightly more platonic. They had, after all, discussed sexuality at a rather early point in their friendship.

Perhaps, mentally, he was in a different mindset than the others because emotionally, he was attached differently than them.


End file.
